


Dark Day

by Giroshane



Series: The Bullfighter's Grief [3]
Category: Book of Life (2014)
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Intoxication, Self-Harm, hints of baby dads having baby fights if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 01:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5029015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giroshane/pseuds/Giroshane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been three years since Carmen...and now one month since...since...<br/>And now Carlos's feet carry him to a very different grave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Day

He runs through the dark streets, running away from the vestiges of his nightmare. He knows he shouldn't be outside this late, and Alfredo will certainly have his hide if he's caught, but he's too scared and too sad. It's the scared and sad that Alfredo tries to understand but he doesn't. Well, maybe he understands the sad, but not the scared. But everyday his mother talks to him less and less and Joaquin is scared that one day she won't talk to him at all.

He knows exactly where he's running to. He's run there so many times now it's almost habit. His legs don't even hurt--he can run all the way there and he won't feel sore anymore.

When Joaquin enters the graveyard, he's not surprised that he's alone. Most of the time he is--it's very late at night after all. He makes his way between the graves towards his father's--the one he always runs to. When he has nightmares like the ones he's been having he always runs to his father's grave. It's nice to sit under the painting and pretend, just pretend, that his father is there, with him. Protecting him.

Sudden screaming makes him skid to a halt. What is that! He thought he was alone. His heart races. It might be a ghost! He follows after the screaming eagerly, weaving through tombstones. He realizes that he screaming is coming from his father's grave. Maybe his dad is back! Although why he would be yelling so angrily is beyond Joaquin, he runs faster.

When he runs into view of the grave he immediately freezes. It wasn't a ghost that had been shouting, and certainly not his father's. This was...Manolo's dad? Why would he be here?

Señor Sanchez is lying beneath the painting of his father, mumbling to himself. He looks utterly distraught--he's crying! Joaquin's never seen Manolo's dad cry before and it's a little weird to see the bullfighter he always thought was cool look so unhappy. There's pieces of black stuff all around him...is it glass? It might be.

The man is staring at his arm, and at something in his hand, and he's almost shaking. Suddenly the wind picks up around them and bowls him over, and nearly knocks Joaquin over. When he recovers and the wind dies down, he sees that Señor Sanchez dropped what he was holding, which seemed to be another large piece of glass. He should make sure the man is alright! That's what his father would do, right?

He trots over until he's only a foot or two away from the bullfighter. Close enough to hear him snap a curse at the painting. Joaquin's eyes widen. That one was really bad! Why would Señor Sanchez be so angry at his dad's grave?

Joaquin tentatively takes a step forward.

"Señor?"

~

It only took three years. Three _fucking_ years. That's...that's…

Carlos can't remember how many days that is. He can't remember a lot, really. But--his _fucking_ luck--he remembers exactly what he was trying to forget in the first place. He stumbles through the graveyard, clutching onto his bottle of beer. He can't remember how many of those he's had either.

Carmen would yell at him if she found him like this. But she won't and she never will again and that's part of the reason why he's in this state at all.

 _"Carmen, mi amor, mi amor, please...Despertarse._ Please _d-despertarse..."_

He growls at the memory like that will make it go away. He takes another swig from the bottle and that doesn't make it go away either, but it makes it more hazy. That's the best he can hope for right now.

His feet don't carry him towards her grave like they usually do on this day; he's also not usually drunk out of his mind on this day. He would never dare disrespect Carmen like that. But the more he drinks the more the pain and numbness burn into anger, and out of the three anger is preferable. His feet carry him to a very different grave.

It's only been about a month since the news came in. There had already been a funeral the whole town attended, the mausoleum erected in record time, and now a giant statue was in the process of being built for it. _Fucking gaudy piece of shit_ , Carlos thinks to himself as it comes into view.

The tomb of Captain Mondragon. Almost all of it had been arranged not by the man's wife, but by General Posada. If the Captain were here he'd make fun of the thing; the fountain was already enough, and now this. But he's not here--that's the whole reason there is a tomb at all.

When he looks up at the portrait over the grave, tears are burning his eyes. He should be more than just a painting. He should be here. He was never supposed to leave. _He promised._

_"Is riding after him really this wise?" Carlos leaned on the doorframe of Plomo's stall._

_"You call me 'un bastardo loco'. That must be for a reason." The Captain replied gruffly. He didn't throw back any insults. He hadn't for almost a year now._

_"There's being crazy and being stupid. You have a family now, Joaquin."_

_"Sí, and I need to make sure they stay safe." He'd already finished packing, he was just waiting for Carlos to get out of his way at this point._

_"They are! Chakal isn't even in this area of Mexico, his cronies' raids are small and infrequent enough that we can handle it!" Carlos pushed off the frame. The dark stallion towered over him just as much as the Captain did._

_"For now. There's no telling what he might do, especially if I stay here like a sitting duck. Who knows how many innocent lives he'll destroy. And he's my family, as much as I hate to admit it. He's my family, he's my responsibility. Get out of the way, Sanchez."_

_"What you say is true, but you shouldn't go alone, for Christ's sake! You can't take on Chakal and his men all by yourself, Mondragon!" Carlos didn't move._

_"The rest of the men need to stay here and protect the town, Carlos." Joaquin shook his head._

_And he interrupted Carlos before he could even get the words out._

_"No. I'm not taking you with me. You're the only parent Manolo has."_

_"What, so just because Gertrude is alive that makes it okay for you to abandon Joaquin?" Carlos snapped. "And what does the high and mighty general have to say about this?"_

_Joaquin immediately stiffened. There was something akin to guilt in his features. His words were terse._

_"He said what he said. I'm still going. Get out of my way."_

_"You mean he told you not to go."_

_"I mean_ get out of my way. _" Joaquin snarled, grabbing the collar of Carlos's shirt singlehandedly and shoving the man away. Carlos was almost knocked to the ground by the force of it, and his heart chilled. Whatever Carlos just saw in the soldier's eyes, it was_ not _Joaquin. He never thought eyes could be so expressive but as the Captain lead his horse out of the stall his eyes looked almost...inhuman. It made the hairs on Carlos's neck stand up. But a Sanchez never backed down from a challenge, and he wasn't going to be cowed by a creepy glare--especially if it belonged to Joaquin Mondragon. He grabbed the man's arm to stop him._

_"Joaquin, this is a bad idea and you kno--" He started to say._

_Captain Mondragon whirled on him, shoving him back into a beam; one hand was fisted in Carlos's shirt, the other...pressed a knife to his throat. Carlos tried not to wince, but the knife was already breaking skin. The Captain's eyes weren't their normal hazel color: they were an unnatural glowing green. He barely even sounded like himself._

_"_ You _are not going to stop me._ No one _is. Not the General, and certainly not the little torero who should learn to keep his mouth_ shut _." He growled. Carlos knew better than to struggle. Struggling could kill him. And the Captain didn't seem too disturbed by that, for whatever terrifying reason--the same terrifying reason Carlos assumed was making his eyes glow so unnaturally. But if Joaquin was ready to kill Carlos for trying to stop him, then…_

_"What did you do to Posada?" He gasped. His heart was pounding in his chest. For a horrifying moment the Captain seemed about to slice the dagger across Carlos's throat, end him right there. For a horrifying moment everything was still._

_Then the glow faded from the soldier's eyes as he blinked once. Twice. And shook his head, as if to clear it. In the flash the man was gone, backing away from Carlos, blade sheathed. He was breathing heavily, like he just came out of a battle. Carlos's hand immediately flew to his new injury. It wasn't too bad, thank god, but it stung like a bitch. When Joaquin looked at Carlos--eyes properly hazel this time--he looked nothing but full of tortured regret and desperation. Carlos couldn't ever recall seeing the man like that. He had known the Captain had been off for ages now--everyone knew--but now he knew something was_ wrong _._

_"He was going to come with me. I had to keep him from doing that." The Captain muttered. The regret changed to resignation._

_"I have to go alone, Carlos." He turned away, back to Plomo, the stallion waiting patiently for its owner. Carlos knew he couldn't stop him. It frustrated him to no end._

_"Joaquin!" He called out. The soldier dutifully paused, although he didn't turn around._

_"There's a reason for this, right?" His voice got quiet. "You're not just...just giving up."_

_Carlos knew that the soldier knew what he was talking about. What he was referring to. He noticed the soldier's grip on Plomo's reigns tighten. It was a moment before the man spoke._

_"...No. No I'm not." Joaquin gazed sadly at Carlos over his shoulder. "I promise I'm not."_

_Before Carlos could respond, the soldier leapt onto Plomo's back with ease. With a cry Joaquin prompted the stallion into a gallop and they burst out of the stables. Carlos followed after them into the street, but no further. There was no point. As the sound of hoofbeats on cobblestone grew fainter and fainter, sudden screams and panicked calls for help reached Carlos's ears._

_"Somebody help! The General's been hurt!"_

_"Get the doctor, get the doctor!"_

_"Mio Dios, his_ hand _!"_

For some reason the General doesn't blame Captain Mondragon for cutting off his hand; in fact the bastard seems to have idolized the hero for it. A noble sacrifice, going after Chakal alone, keeping everyone safe by preventing them all from helping. Carlos wants to scream whenever he hears that. Because he knows. He knows and Joaquin knew.

"You knew." He hisses. He downs the rest of the beer. "You _knew_."

The drunken rage burning inside him is starting to block out everything else, and it feels good. Carlos has been bottling this up for days and it feels good to finally release it all.

"You knew you weren't coming back. You promised me and you fucking lied. 'A man of my word' my ass!" Carlos's voice starts to rise in volume. "You're a fucking liar! You knew it was suicide! You knew and you still went! You left everyone behind! You knew it was suicide you _goddamn fucking HYPOCRITE!_ "

Carlos launches the bottle at the painting. It shatters on impact, glass flying everywhere. The violence feels good and maybe, just maybe, Carlos understands why he got a broken nose and two black eyes the day he was rescued from the lake. But he is far from done with this fucking _bastard_.

" _You_. You and Carmen were--were all I had. You were the only ones who understood! Who I trusted! Carmen--mi--m-mi _amor_ \--she was taken from me! But you--you walked out! You left me! You knew what this would do to me and you still left! You _prick_!" Carlos frantically paces as he yells at the grave. He doesn't think he's ever felt rage and pain and grief in such equal amounts and he doesn't want any of it to begin with. Inebriation ruins his coherency so he settles for throwing shards of bottle glass at the painting with screams of anger. He probably sounds like a wild animal at this point but why should he care? There's no one else here. Several times he feels the glass dig into his palm and the physical pain is almost a relief from the mental. Finally he stops, a particularly large piece of sharp glass clenched in his fist. Blood begins to ooze between his fingers.

"Now," he pants, face wet with tears he's too drunk to give a damn about, "now look at me. I'm mourning for you more than your own wife!" As he jabs a finger at the grave accusingly his balance is thrown off. He stumbles and can't recover and nearly smashes headfirst on the steps of the mausoleum. Catching himself on his hands and knees digs the shard of glass in his hand deeper and the pain whites out his vision. After a brief moment of panicked gasping he rolls over, and slowly his vision returns to normal although the pain doesn't fade. He probably should have known better than to insult Gertrude in front of the Captain. Being drunk has meddled with his head too much; graves don't talk or do things but he feels like this one should and does.

"That's...that's not true." He says quietly. He never apologizes. "She's mourning. She's probably--probably the worst out of all of us."

If it were possible, the cold woman has grown even colder, like ice. She’s withdrawn from everyone and everything, including her own son. Carlos feels sorry for the poor thing: with his father gone and his mother close to the same thing, the only support little Joaquin ever seems to have is from his butler. And Manolo. Carlos can't even count on his hands how often he's found the two, sitting together at the fountain, Manolo strumming discordant notes of strings he doesn't know how to tune yet and singing made up songs that rarely ever make sense, and Joaquin, completely enraptured. Manolo knows how to make the boy smile, whether through singing or through being Joaquin’s fellow hero, running through the streets in search of adventure. Their journeys have already caught the eye of the General’s daughter: she’s only two or three years old but already shows signs of being a rather rambunctious girl.

“Why did--why did you leave him, Mondragon?” Carlos mumbles, sitting up and drawing his knees to his chest. “He looks up to you so m-much, and now what is he supposed to think?”

He opens his cut palm and stares at the bloodied shard of glass, the blood dripping onto the grave below. He knows it will scar. He always scars.

“What am _I_ supposed to think?”

It's been three years, and the pain has hung over him like a dark cloud, a thunderstorm. Some days it's been far way, in the distance, and he can play with Manolo and care for the bulls. Other days it's threatened to break, and he'll barely move out of bed and his father will yell at him uselessly. Luis never understands how Carlos can be like that; often it will take Anita to get him to leave his son alone. Anita doesn't really understand herself, but she knows yelling doesn't help and her best solution is leaving Carlos alone. When these days stretched on and on, Joaquin would come. Joaquin wouldn't always drag him out of bed (although he did do it quite often, the dick). Sometimes he would simply pull a chair up by Carlos in the bed and just sit quietly. Those days when they weren't rivals, when they cared more for each other than either of them would ever admit out loud, maybe they didn't always help. But sometimes they did. But now they're never going to happen again.

The storm is breaking and that kind of sentence keeps recurring over and over in Carlos's head like thunder: _never again never again never again..._

He yanks the glass out of his hand, grunting at the pain. Is he crying again? Probably. He’s too busy staring at the piece of glass, reflecting green in the light of the candles around him, and the small area of his wrist exposed from his sleeve shifting down. There already scars, scars from practices and scars from performances and scars from days where the mental pain was too much. He can almost picture it, in his mind. One slice of pain, deeper than ever before, and then red, seeping into his green suit, dripping onto the ground, draining him completely so there's nothing but nothing. Certainly not the prettiest way to go--

Without warning strong wind gusts through the graveyard, knocking him over. The shard tumbles from his grip and makes a tinkling sound when it hits the ground. When Carlos recovers he glares over his shoulder at the painting.

“Fuck you.” He spits.

“Señor?”

The voice startles him. For a moment he panics, because holy _shit_ the grave is talking back to him, but then he realizes: the voice is far too young. The voice of a child even.

Carlos looks up and nearly has a heart attack anyway because for a moment he’s staring at Joaquin. Joaquin, back from the dead. But his eyes are just a tad too green and his hair is lighter and Carlos realizes that it’s not Joaquin--although it is, technically, Joaquin. Joaquin junior. Joaquin’s son. Joaquin's son Joaquin. Carlos makes a mental note to punch the Captain when he sees him again for naming his son after himself and making his drunk thoughts so confusing.

“Señor? Are you okay?” Joaquin asks. No, no he isn't. But just because he's drunk doesn't give him an excuse to be a bad example for the little boy.

"I--Sí, niño. I've just--I've just had a bit too much to drink tonight." Carlos hurriedly pushes himself up so he's sitting upright. He carefully hides his wounded hand from Joaquin. It wouldn't do for him to see it. He haphazardly wipes his face; he doesn’t know how much good it does.

"Too much of what drink? Bad drink?" The five-year-old asks curiously. Carlos can't help but chuckle a little at the boy's name for alcohol.

"Ah, sí. Sí, bad drink." Carlos does his best to smile. "I'm glad your mother's teaching you early, that it's bad drink."

"Mama didn't teach me that. Alfredo did." Joaquin pipes. Carlos tries not to show how much that bothers him.

"Well, good on Alfredo. Trust--trust me, he's right."

"Then why did you drink it?" Ah shit. He walked into that one. He looks over his shoulder at the Captain's painting. He's not smiling--then again, neither is Carlos in his portrait at the bullring. But Joaquin--senior--looks seconds away from clawing the painter's eyes out, and indeed: his hand in its intimidating metal gauntlet is covering a spot over his heart, fingers bent aggressively. A part of Carlos thinks that the Captain should be smiling though, or looking proud, confident. But something had already changed in him by then--something that Carlos couldn't figure out and something Carlos couldn't fix, even though he tried, in his own way. The painting was just proof he hadn't succeeded.

"Maybe it's because I'm a bad man." Carlos sighs.

"I don't think so!" Joaquin says. "I think you're like my dad!"

Carlos stops breathing for a minute.

"P-Pardon?" He stammers, looking back to the little boy. Joaquin is grinning.

"Well, you're both heroes!"

Carlos still hasn't resumed breathing. It feels like his heart is caught in his throat because it can't be right, what little Joaquin is saying. He's not a hero. He's never been a hero. Just a damaged, broken man who can barely keep it together.

"That's v-very kind of you, niño, but I believe you--you are mistaken. I'm no hero." He says quietly.

"Sure you are! You're just a different kind of hero, Papa told me."

"Q-qué?" At some point Carlos would like to start breathing again, but every word the little boy says seems to take his breath away.

"He told me about how you sometimes helped him fight! He said sometimes it's good to have someone there to help you. Someone you can trust...I'm not super sure what trust means." The boy finishes, brow furrowing.

"But I know I trust Manny!" He adds with a toothy grin.

"That's...that's nice." Carlos says. But Joaquin continues before Carlos can say anything else.

"Papa also said you're a special kind of hero! You fight monsters that no one can see! I think that's really cool!"

Carlos can't say anything to that. He really can't. He glances back at the painting. The Captain really told his son all of that? His eyes blur and burn again.

"Señor, are you sure you're okay?" Joaquin asks. Carlos sniffs, and pushes himself unsteadily to is feet.

“Sí...sí. I f-forgot that bad drink makes the monsters harder to fight, sometimes." He doesn't know exactly what makes him play along with the boy's perception of his problems, but he does. Joaquin's eyes widen.

"Really?" He gasps, looking for all the world like he believes that Carlos fights mythical invisible bogeymen. He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Are there any monsters here?"

"Ah...no. No, I fought--I fought them all off. It's safe now." Carlos says. Lord, what time is it...Joaquin shouldn't be awake, that's for sure. What was the boy doing here in the first place? "But, uh...why don't I walk you home? Just in case."

Joaquin looks away from him and shuffles his feet.

"I don't wanna go home." He mumbles.

"Why not?"

"I got bad dreams."

"...About your father." Carlos guesses.

"Sometimes." Joaquin nods. "Sometimes about him leaving...then Mama leaving too."

Carlos can feel his heart break. Joaquin is far too young to have dreams like that, fears like that. He crouches down so he's eye-level with the boy and lays a hand (his uninjured hand) on his shoulder.

"Listen to me, niño. Your mother is very sad right now. But I promise she's not going to leave you."

"That's what Alfredo says. But I'm still scared. It feels like she's gonna to leave me too, no matter what anyone says." Joaquin sniffs a little. Carlos sighs and hopes he can find the right words.

"When people are...very sad, or upset, sometimes...sometimes they make bad choices. But sadness...unhappiness...it doesn't last forever. And your mother will come back to us. It just might--might take a while."

Carlos does his best attempt at a reassuring smile, and in a way, he realizes he's saying these words to himself, and he's not just talking about Gertrude. The words don't really make him feel better--but that's not really his goal, is it?

"Do you really think so?" Joaquin asks eyes wide and innocent and so hopeful. Carlos feels the protectiveness he feels around Manolo surge in him.

"Sí. I really do. Come on, let's get you home." Carlos is a little unsteady on his feet when he straightens, but if the little boy notices he doesn't comment.

Carlos doesn’t expect Joaquin to take his hand; he didn’t offer and Joaquin didn’t ask, but the boy is suddenly gripping his hand tightly. The two walk in silence through the empty streets of San Ángel. When Carlos looks down at him, he can’t help but think: _has it really been five years..._ He honestly remembers the day the boy was born just as well as when his own son was born. He remembers the Captain pacing nervously, his mustache a complete mess from tugging on it repeatedly...

_“Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so scared.” Carlos smirked. The Captain only glared at him as he paced. “Tu tienes los cojones de corbata.”_

_“No me toques los cojones, te pequeña mierda.” He growled. Before Carlos could reply another scream rang through the halls of the mansion, making Joaquin jump._

_“Gertrude!” The soldier choked, twitching towards the stairs. Carlos quickly seized the man’s arm; this was the tenth time this had happened so far, and twice he had had to essentially drag the man back down the stairs._

_“She’ll be fine, she’ll be okay, Joaquin,” Carlos reassured him. “She’s strong.”_

_Carlos hoped he wouldn’t be so shaken whenever he and Carmen had their own child. They had been trying, but nothing had come of it yet…_

_It was another hour before Carmen came only halfway down the stairs, grinning wildly._

_“Joaquin! You can come up now! Come meet the baby!” She was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, she was so ecstatic. Carlos couldn’t help but smile. Joaquin was already bolting up the stairs, calling for Gertrude. Carlos followed slowly, catching up to Carmen on the stairs._

_“Is everything alright? Is Gertrude doing well?” He asked. Carmen nodded._

_“Sí, she and the baby are perfectly healthy. Ay, that boy is so big! And he has his mother’s eyes.” She said cheerfully. Carlos raised his eyebrows._

_“So it’s a boy. The Captain will be overjoyed.”_

_Carmen slapped his shoulder._

_“You know he’d would have been happy with a son or a daughter.” She chided. Carlos chuckled._

_“Relax, I’m just teasing.” He paused outside the threshold to the room. Suddenly he felt nervous--he shouldn’t be imposing on something so important._

_“You can come in.” Joaquin called softly._

_Carlos certainly wasn’t expecting the man to be crying, let alone a sobbing mess. The small bundle seemed even smaller in his giant arms. Gertrude lay in bed, smiling tiredly at the sight. Carlos approached slowly. The baby boy was wide awake, but incredibly calm._

_“Congratulations, Joaquin.” He patted the soldier’s arm, awkwardly gentle. He meant it, he really did. He nodded to Gertrude. “Congratulations to you both.”_

_“Gracias…” The woman murmured, voice laced with exhaustion._

_“Have you decided on a name?” Carmen asked._

_“Joaquin.” Gertrude answered before the Captain could. “Su nombre es Joaquin.”_

_“No,” The Captain protested, “We shouldn’t name him after--”_

_“His name is Joaquin.” Gertrude repeated, in that way that meant she would take no arguments. A woman of iron will, she always was._

_“What about your father’s--”_

_"That will be his middle name.” She said, smiling proudly. “Joaquin Emilio Mondragon.”_

_“Perfeto,” Carmen beamed. “A strong name for a strong child.”_

_“Ay,” Joaquin sighed happily, bouncing little Joaquin in his arms. “He feels like a miracle.”_

_“I have to agree,” Carlos nodded, “He’s inherited his mother’s looks. He dodged quite a bullet.”_

_Of course that earned him a shove from both the Captain and his wife. Surprisingly, he heard a weak chuckle from the bed. It was rare the woman laughed around anyone but her husband. Carlos chalked it up to her fatigue._

_“Be careful, Carlos,” Joaquin snorted, a mischievous glint in his eyes “Or I’ll change my mind about making you his godfather.”_

_Carlos’s jaw dropped._

Carlos still can’t believe Captain Mondragon did that. He had even refused at first, but Joaquin insisted. And, against his hopes, Carlos _had_ been worse when Manolo was born. In his defense, Carmen had been seriously ill several times throughout the pregnancy, so Carlos reserved the right to panic. Still, the Captain had had to sit on him to keep him from barging into the bedroom...

_“Get off me this instant, tu bastardo loco!” Carlos pummeled the soldier’s waist, but it did no good. Joaquin was simply too heavy for him. “Get your ass off of me! Get off get off get off!”_

_Another bloodcurdling scream tore through the house. Carlos’s heart stuttered. She was in pain he had to be with her!_

_“Carmen! Carmen!” He cried. He hit harder. “Let me go!”_

_“You need to leave her be!” Joaquin retorted, barely affected by Carlos’s struggling. “She will be fine Carlos, she’s one of the strongest women I know!”_

_“M’ijo, you’re making too much of a fuss!” Luis tried. His father seemed calm and collected, but he hadn’t even lit the cigar he was trying to smoke he was so scattered, he was just nervously chewing it and tapping his foot as he leaned on the fireplace mantle. Luis cared just as much for his daughter-in-law as he did for his son, and it showed. “You think I was this out of control when you were born?”_

_“You had to be kicked out of the entire house.” Anita commented dryly, still knitting--the only tell of her own stressed nerves was the rapidity with which she knit. “And then you tried to climb up the trellis.”_

_“W-what! No, no that is not what happened!” Luis rushed to keep her silent. Before he could continue trying (and failing) to reassure his son there was another scream._

_“Carmen! Mi amor! Déjame ver su!” Carlos screamed, nigh on hysterical. He clawed at Joaquin’s uniform, trying to pull himself free. “Dejame ir!”_

_“Carlos! Settle down!” Joaquin snapped, grabbing Carlos’s wrists. “You’re only going to get in the way if you go up there!”_

_“Pollas en vinagre!” Carlos snarled. “I don’t care, I need to see her! I can’t lose her!”_

_There was a creak on the steps, and both men froze, Carlos with his heart in his throat. He couldn’t see over the couch, but Joaquin could._

_“Gertrude,” Joaquin sighed, exasperated. “Please tell me…”_

_“No, not yet.” The woman replied coolly. “Carmen has a message for Carlos.”_

_“What is it! What is it!” Carlos cried, trying to wrest his hands free. No use._

_“She told me to repeat her exact words,” Gertrude sounded a little uncomfortable, and sighed, “She said, ‘Cerrado la joderse arriba.’”_

_Carlos’s mouth snapped shut. Joaquin tried to hold back his laughter. It worked for a good second or two. Then it failed and the man began to laugh uproariously. It really wasn’t comfortable with the man still_ sitting on top of him _and it vibrated through him in places that really didn’t need that right now. Carlos scowled._

“Señor?”

There’s a tug on his hand. Oh, he had stopped walking, caught up in memory. Memory of when times were happy...times were good…

“Señor, are you sure you’re okay?” Joaquin tugs on his hand again. “You’re crying!”

Carlos shakes his head to clear the memories away. He sniffs--he’s not going to let go of Joaquin’s hand, and he’s not going to use his bleeding hand to wipe his face. So the tears fall and he looks like a wreck.

“Lo siento, niño. Today...today is n-not a--good day for me. Something...something very bad happened a few years ago today.” He says, voice shaky. “And, and that...that c-combined with the news a month ago...it is just too much for an old m-man like m-me.”

Joaquin stares up at him for a moment. Carlos is too drunk to properly read the boy’s face. And again, Carlos isn’t expecting it, but the boy suddenly hugs him, small arms wrapping around his legs and nearly throwing him off balance.

“M’sorry, Señor,” Joaquin mumbles into his thigh. Carlos pats the boy shoulder awkwardly.

“Ah, you--you shouldn’t b-be sorry,” Carlos says, “It’s not your fault.”

Joaquin pulls away from him, and his eyes are wide, and so earnest, so much like his father, lord it’s making it harder to stop crying.

“I’m sorry it’s a bad day for you, Señor,” Joaquin tells him, “I hope you have more good days soon.”

“I--uh--me too, niño, me too.” Carlos fumbles. This is not really something he’s cogent enough to handle, but damn if he’s not going to try. He kneels down to the boy’s height again.

“Ah, um, listen, niño,” He begins awkwardly. He pauses, takes a deep breath, and tries again. “Joaquin, I just want you to know, if you ever, _ever_ need--need someone to talk to, or if you--you don’t feel c-comfortable at home, you can always come to me. The Sanchez home will always be open to you, I p-promise.”

“Really?” Joaquin gasps, surprised. Carlos smiles.

“Really. I’d rather you waking me up at some ung-godly hour of the night instead of--instead of--staying outside by a c-cold grave. Alright?”

“Okay.” Joaquin nods vigorously, smiling gratefully.

Carlos glances around the corner. They’re just around the corner from the Mondragon mansion. Carlos is having too much trouble focusing on just Joaquin in front of him, and the last thing Joaquin needs to see is him passing out in front of the gates.

“Joaquin, you’ll b-be fine--fine from here, sí?” He asks. Joaquin nods again.

“Yep! I know how to sneak in so no one knows I was gone. Thank you, Señor Sanchez.” He steps away and turns to go, but pauses, looking back over his shoulder.

“Um,” The boy blushes nervously, “I just wanna make sure you know, Señor, you and Papa are my heroes.”

With that he runs off. Carlos nearly falls completely to the ground at the words, and he slams his injured palm on the wall to keep himself upright. The pain wakes him up a little. Slowly he makes it to his feet, but he stumbles and ends up leaning on the wall. It’s going to be a long walk home, and if he’s not careful when he himself sneaks in, his father and abuelita will have his hide. But he’s not sure he can walk. He’s too busy sobbing into his hand.

Him. A _hero_. To _Joaquin_. And to think the Captain inspired that opinion in the boy.

“Tu bastardo loco.” He whispers brokenly. Suddenly he laughs, laughs through his tears and the pain and everything. “Tu bastardo loco…” He repeats, shoving himself off the wall.

Somehow he’ll make it home. Someway this dark day will end. Someday he’ll be a hero Joaquin can really look up to. A hero both Joaquin _and_ Manolo can look up to.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, finally finished this one. Took a while, but I used Muertober as an excuse to kick my ass in gear. Because, after all, my two favorite characters, going through tough times together! Poor boys.


End file.
